When were children, we ran half-naked
through July and August sprinklers
where the tough Bermuda grass
always needed mowing. We spurned
shady places and lay instead with girls
getting baby lotion tans. As my flesh
cooked, I would close my eyes, fireworks
beneath their lids—my imagination ran
to places I knew nothing about—
just disconnected flashes of flames
within the black. No one seemed
to mind the heat in those days.
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged Brand, Fire, iron, weekly-photo-challenge
1.
Never a straight line, we bend
with the channel of the creek
with or without water, jobs
shouting at every turn, begging
for attention. I love it now,
seasoned and with purpose,
place after place to pour my soul,
to get it right. Chances are
my fence repairs will outlast me,
gates will swing, troughs hold water
out of respect for the ground—
for the cattle and those around me.
2.
Never a straight line, cows cut trails
on perfect grades, leave soft dust
to plod tomorrow without thinking,
make beds in shade for generations
they will never know. In the end
it becomes our nature to make
living easier on the uneven,
on the unpredictable and the harsh
that will eventually absorb us.
Chances are, no one will notice,
no applause for our best effort—
only the knowing a job well done.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged age, doors, Gates, nature, purpose, weekly-photo-challenge, work
Admitting defeat
with no where to go but up
can be contagious.
How do they know, these old fat cows
that read a baggy sadness in my walk
among them checking irons as they pull
alfalfa stems apart to tongue green leaf
in the corral? The gates are set, waiting
for the truck to town. There is nothing
right about the moment, that they know—
little consolation in my voice, they eye me
suspiciously searching for details
in my muted gestures. If I told them
all I know of town, of auction rings
and rails, they would all revolt
for the brushy hills, lay fences down
to take their chances without water
through the summer—that I know.
At my desk, a fluttering commotion outside the window. One of our several Roadrunners was trying to attack a metal silhouette of a crow on the window sill.
In the two feet between us, a screen door and window glass.
But a few of the many expressions of a Roadrunner…
…that I thought I’d share.
The place has changed
where water pooled,
ringed by cattails
at the end
of irrigated pastures
long gone brown
for rock and gravel
royalties that boomed
before the bust.
How many times
have those Mallards
risen in my mind?
My father’s words
on a Sabbath saved
from Sunday School,
an ascension
beyond religion
dripping from clouds.
We’re managing to keep up with garden production. Robbin has made several batches of pickles, some delicious dill, but mostly bread and butter pickles utilizing our new striped Armenians as well as our standard Armenians that are quite crunchy and striking in the same jar.
She also adds some red onions to her pickles as we thin our new onion/raspberry bed.
We are evolving to more container gardening, utilizing our many Rubbermaid water troughs that used to be guaranteed for life, but after three years the company reneged realizing that the plastic material couldn’t withstand the expansion and contraction with our weather nor the pressure of the cattle at water. They all leak.
Our old protein supplement tubs for the cattle make good containers as well.
It’s all about controlling the weeds. With weed cloth deteriorating in the sun, Robbin has tried to salvage a little more life out of it with a covering of decorative bark.
And then the peppers that we barbecue with almost everything, but especially compliment a piece of beef.
Indeed it is a lot of work, very little of which can I take credit.
We’ve been watching a pair of Roadrunners building a nest in a nearby cottonwood, what appear to be last May’s juveniles. Though we knew we had at least two hatches each year, we assumed both were from adult birds.
There is nothing scientific about our observations, no tags or names and we are not inclined to build blinds, put cameras on tripods and wait in 100 plus degrees to prove a point. Fortunately this was not a quick exercise, allowing time to go into the house last evening to get the camera with my 400 mm lens to catch this pair still engaged.
drycrikjournal 